Requiem for the Mundiale, not just the festival of football, but the discourse and debate it sired in Cyberia, a magnificent supernova destined to extinguish its brilliance in a fast approaching soon. Soon this chapter of the forum will gather dust and irrelevance as the Greatest Show on Earth kick-offs, the EPL, Pulis, Palace, perfect. Soon, but for now, all the lightworks of Lupe Fiasco, fireworks of Katy Perry, illumination, flourescence, glow. Behold, the last part of the fabulous trilogy, A Cyberian Tale.

In times of contest, man must find contest and in that, find triumph. As Part 2 did slew Part 1 so shall Part 3 slew part 2.

Tis only a fool who does not declare his genius. He has none.

Better to be read than to read. "...Even the most energetic and wonderful mess has to be turned into sentences.” ― Terry Pratchett

From the finest literatures in all Cyberia, another Cyberian classic, from the Greatest Of All Time...Coachiliam 'Bahiagbon Shakespeare and Head No Dey House Publishers proudly presents...in 5, 4, 3, 2...(Psssst, e go do Celluminati like film trick)

Last edited by Coach on Wed Jul 16, 2014 12:03 am, edited 1 time in total.

Distracted, BBC1 'Too Many Immigrants' documentary, "if they're coming over to England, they should at least be able to speak English or British"....hahahahahahahah, unbelievable. There really is no hope for the great indigenous hope of dear England.

Rustling up the classic within the hour. 'Need to understand...British'. #unbelievable.

Done! The master of the finest art, masterful once more, ladies, gentlemen, scholars and secret societarians, without further a due...the eagerly awaited, long anticipated, that which has bated breaths across the full breadth of Cyberia, that most magnificent of transitional metals captured in prose, the most classical of the classics, without further delay...hot off the press, fresh fom the touch typing genius of the free writing, speed writing, one hour flat, greatest of Gandalfian storytellers, the unheralded treasure of this very Cyberia, without further hesitation...

...Too Many Immigrants, Part 1, BBC, who watched it? delayed the launch of the following classic, very interesting debate at ground level. Worth a catchup or iPlayer. I digress.

Behold, the critically acclaimed...a bit of (more than a bit, almost all) plagiarism from a short story written a while back, Blue Is The Colour, (available for purchase, send ego first Biko), #decent, but still took a hot minute (or rather, chilly) as they say in the CPT, to spoof up the basta'd. No spell check. Enjoy. Illustrations viewtopic.php?f=7&t=237572&start=345

Full Trilogy, hard-backed with gold trimmings available by mail order, collector's edition RRP £99.99+pp (25% CE Discount)...Biko, lost hundreds in-play on 20/1s #f**kFIFA...Madam's still thinking Dubai first weekend in August is still on...Can sense a convenient cold striking one's self down on the 31st July. Dia ris God o!

Mods lock the accounts of those who dont purchase am, Biko!

CE Story Pt 3: NATIVES,by Coachiliam 'Bahiagbon Shakespeare

Chapter 1 - Tonight: Mullered

Dull. Dark. Inclement. The season had moved from glorious sunshine to the hiemal, hibernal, bleak and blizzard of midwinter. The sun, as pretentious as ever in day's past, boisterous, boastful, burning bright above the beaches in all its highfulating splendour, cast a forlorn figure amongst the morose, saturnine skies. Ever has the meteorological been more purposeful? The weighted rise of the sun to assume its hegemony high up in the sky, languid, lethargic, there was an air of the disinterested about the staggered climb, that which whispered in the winds for gravity, that most phantom of forces, to exude its Herculean might and pull the star back to rest in its nocturnal hiding place. Back beneath the covers of darkness, those ensconcing duvets, enshrouding blankets. Such days as this, those cut from the cloths of tragic nights and mourning mornings, those chaperoned to brighten the depths of night by the crow's deathly tweet, were ominous by all beliefs. The sun purposely woke late, intentionally dragged its heels as it motioned through its morning ritual, dilly-dallied with the journey to work. Such days lend to their associates blight and bete noir, the curse of Caesar and myriad other majesties collapsed, ruined, condemned. High up in the sky, yet cowering, camouflaging behind the clouds, impoverishing the day with the barest minimums of its shine, tepid, lukewarm, a teary-eyed sun shined, if such dim light befits such definition.

The mood, morose, the carnivalesque Copas and colourful Cabanas, had fallen into solemn and silence. The flamboyant high fives, extravagant embraces of passersby, replaced by subtle nods of heads in a sensed acknowledgement, unseen almost, as gazes fixed on the floor. Within 90 minutes the frown had become the must have fashion accessory sweeping the nation. The Brazilian fairytale had been slapped back to reality with the ferocity of a piratical tidal wave colliding with the shore. It was meant to be, beneath a brilliant sun, within the brilliant Maracana, glowing a brilliant golden yellow, Brazil, brazilliant, would dazzle, enthrall, entertain, as they Samba danced towards glory. The truth was less serendipitous and certainly, more actual fact. Brazil had been an emotive mess, a cacophony of unstable, over pumped, under focused average Joes, whose only accomplishments were manly bellows of a national anthem, synchronised fist pumps and Hollywood poses, praying hands, pointing fingers, hands in heart symbol. Everything but the football. The watered down cocktail had met the tumbler, the pint glass filled to a perfect measure with Bavarian bitter, 5% lager, brewed from the most barrel-chested barleys and hirsute hops. Men. Real men.

Chapter 2 - The Night Before: Slipper-less Not In Seattle

Concomitant to Brazil's collapse, was the common knowledge status achieved by Chop Slippagate . Rumours had surfaced of skirmishes within the Eagles' camp on the eve of their ill-fated fixture with the French. Elimination from the competition brought, as it always does, disregard for the old adage, what goes on on tour, stays on tour. Having assumed the role of old black woman, yappidy-yapping over the garden fence recklessly, with errant disregard for the proximity of her chosen subject matter, Tracy Chapman was approached by an enraged Odemwingie.

What would normally have proceeded with an exercise in fronting and dont hold me backs, all the while moving back in pure passivity, assumed a different and guilty pleasure pleasing path. Within an instant, the Fast Car singer was holding two hands to his cheek wailing deliberately drawn out expletives for added emphasis. Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...a whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooole me...o moiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. For posterity, let it be known, the slipper chopped was of the nomad variety, Moroccan camel leather. Custom-made. A forgettable world-cup, as far as Obiesta be concerned, memorable for its exposing the mediocrity of the so-called Maverick, the Peter Pan boyishness, same way since eighteen, of the Boywonder, arbitrary measures for wonder of course, was now unforgettable for the demasculinising of the now absolute I be Lady O.

Following Brazil's bludgeoning, the nation had fallen into a state of stupor, dumbstruck, disbelieving, denial had rendered the most, senseless, exploiting the amaurosis of the security guards and night watchmen, Pokey had slipped into the stadium. An eerie silence greeted him like a mother does the prodigal son returning to the roost.

The cushioned leather on the chairs felt feather-like to his fingertips, the memory foam had yet to relinquish the impression of a perplexed Stephen Keshi watching on, he'd trace those groves and contours too.

Eyes closed, images of Pogba barging, rattling, out-sprinting, owning Obiesta hurried to occupy the darkness, each flashback an Aquarius pouring its water from the lacrimal glands. The tears fell torrentially. Left, right, ahead, behind, the images of Pogba grew, glowed, each instance of his omnipotence concluded by a cackled laugh akin to the villainous cartoon character. Slowly they moved closer towards Pokey, the laughs louder, the mauling of Mikel more morbid, macabre, tackles severed limbs, barges broke bones, out sprints opened up lava filled caverns neath the snail's feet.

A bead of sweat continued its false start, running down the sloped forehead to freefall from the broad, disfiguringly flat nose. Then came the others, a tidal wave of panic's dews streamed from gaping pores, tears, sweats, rhinorrhea, drowning in a torrent of emotion, lost at a sea of lability, "run Pokey, run", a source-less voice whispered. And so he did. Across the touchline, onto the pitch, barefeet slapped the ground, caloused soles bludgeoning blades of grass to prostration. Across the centre-spot, as if imitating a kick-off, he swung a foot at an imaginary ball and scurried after the hallucination, shimmy left, dropped shoulder to the right, one stepover, two stepovers, "Mikel" he shouted before swiping at the night air with his left foot. Faster he ran, hurtling towards the area, dipping in between imaginary Varanes and miraged Koscielnys, "Mikel! Mikel!". His eyes gazed up, fixed, tracing the trajectory of the flighted pass, a turn on the heel, twist of the torso in mid air, an audacious overhead kick. The ground caved in receipt of its weighty burden, in an instant, Pokey was up, joyous, jubilant, "Yesssssssssssss!!!" he shouted, "yessssssssss, Mikel, Mikel, we did it, we did it". As fast as the illusions had appeared, they vanished, the silence of the stadium slowly meandered towards the fore, fading out the villainous laughs of a triumphant Paul Pogba. John had been jettisoned, Obi obsequious, Mikel molested. The shattering of atria and ventricles deep within Pokey's chest resonated around the stadium akin to the child catching his father climbing into an oversized cotton red costume whilst pulling an elasticated beard over his head on Xmas Eve, Pokey was heartbroken.

Stood beneath the crossbar, a feeling of sweet serenity crept into mind. Obiesta had been exposed, ridiculed, ravaged, effeminated, the Boywonder was now wonder-bra, rather, a saggy tit of no shape nor splendour. How to forget the falsifications of the fallen hero? Staring up at the crossbar, Pokey knew just how.

A whisper into silent surroundings is as vociferous as the booming octave in the opera. Twas the sweet harmonious chimes of Tracy Chapman's Greatest Hits streaming forth from the iPhone's loudspeaker that broke the trance of the security guards. Scurrying towards the source, in the lackluster light of the falling sun, they made out the rope, the slipknot and strangulated form dangling beneath the crossbar. Within minutes, Las Paramedicas had arrived. The makeshift noose, denim jeans, had hung low enough to keep the feet firmly planted on the soil, more strangulating than hanging. Serendipity?

"Soo-es-si, gini! For what". Few were more startled than Cellular, Pokey had always been a loyal servant, ever the obsequious, some had speculated that the show of emotion concealed a disappointment at the realisation that he might have to carry his own luggage back to the airport. "God speed, Fada, mek yoo heal am well well, sharp sharp" he added, raising a pint glass to the full reach of his arm. The clinking of glasses embracing in cheers, the swish-swoshing of beers and spirits as they kissed, played a somber note akin to the violin and cello ensemble of a dramatic ending.

"Tomorrow be dat ehn, no be now o! I neva even chop anytin since" the obeliskesque, burly Babafad protested, rice in one hand, stew in the other, seldom did he chop or chew for that matter, cutlery was purposeless beyond its decorating the dinner table. "Ehn" he continued chewing with all the operatics of an interview with a fresh pellet of Wrigley's Extra chewing gum chomping Stephen Keshi, "dis small small somtin", in reference to the five person sharing platter he'd commandeered, "e no fit to ansa brer'fast. Mek we go and see am tomorrow sha! Bobo can wait".

"Como e, ermmm, your foods" a shy but shapely waitress asked, over the weeks she'd become familiar with the Cyberians and found great pleasure and entertainment in waiting their table. A blush as florid as the algous bloom would blossom her cheeks every time Mazi spoke, the old soldier would dip into tales of his worldly adventures, most times absolutely irrelevant to discourse, whenever she approached their table.

"E posso, errrr, can I, anything get you" she asked, the convoluted arrangement of sentences added to her sweetness, a knee-high Ghanaian, frustrated by her grammatical deviance, had once tried to mark her tongue in red pen, overstretched and fallen into a cooking pot. Or so said legend.

"Can I get you anything" she corrected herself.

"Yes, chili sauce" Dubya replied. Incognito for much of the season past, so as to claim "I didn't zee" the countless capitulations and myriad 'arf dozens masterminded by the darkest con of fan, the Truest Goon of unparalleled visual acuity was back boogalooing about the golden statue of a sagittarian Arsene Wenger. The signing of Alexis Sanchez had restricted his vocabulary to copious connotations of the word Chile.

"Anything else?".

"Yes, a new Maverick for their midfield" joked a voice from afar "and some hold up, upfront" he added.

"Good luck with that one".

The two men broke into boisterous laughter, backs to the Cyberians, there was not least an air of arrogance in their posture, aloof, disinterested, but insult in their words.

The Mundiale had not only pit wits on pitches, but on the beaches too, on the glorious golden sands of the Copa Cabana, teams, 5 to 7 a-aside had locked horns in battle. The Cyberians had marched to and been mauled on, such battlefields. The spineless surrender of the Super Eagles vs France, the fractured fibula sustained by the aptly named Shola Amerobby whilst attempting a stepover, one leg fouling the other, Pokey's self-strangulation, chaos was very much in camp, monarchical, sovereign. Denial, emotions and drink, had caused Cellular to stand and confront the two jibber-jabbering about his beloved Cyberia.

"Who ah' yoo" he bellowed, a hurried step taking him to within inches of the bar. "Woss yor nem?!".

A smarmy reply broke their deafening silence, "good luck with that one". The two men burst in raucous laughter once more.

As if the red rag had been wrapped salaciously about a magnificently mounded mare, redheaded, dangled before the bull, a riled Cellular swung a clumsy clenched fist at the back of their heads. Palm wine had been his tipple at the beach bars before the games and was certainly an adequately inebriating aqua to achieve the terminus adquiem of sorrows drowned. Two pints too many as far as balance and proprioception be had. The wild swing had fallen short of its mark, gathering such momentum in its waywardness as to precipitate his topple and tumble towards the ground.

Spinning around on the bar-stall, coming to a perfect rest perpendicular to the prostrated Cyberian, he placed his foot on top of his head in indignation, "Tx" he said through a smile, "BeniTx" he concluded in that James Bondian punctuated introduction, where surname precedes first and surname together. Both men rose from their stalls, BeniTx setting off at a leisurely stroll, head wiggling, lips pouted like some pretentious plummy, having parked his horse and carriage outside of an ostentatiously overpriced establishment and thrown his black card towards the till. His accomplice, "CIC", as he introduced himself, crouched down towards Cellular, "you get plenty sand dey for yor hair sha, e no easy to tek am out o. Good luck with that one" he mocked before beating what would've been a hasty retreat but for the hand clasped around his ankle.

Chapter 4 - Winner Takes Cyberia

"Tok am again! Eh! Eef yoo get sense, tok am again! Who be dis, who be dis!!! Yoo get liver, eh!", staggering to stand, foaming at the mouth, eyes wide open, nostrils flared, Cellular was beating his chest like the kingest kong. Unhanding CIC he hurtled after BeniTx; Mazi, Dubya, Robby followed in hot pursuit. Babafad seized the opportunity to pillage the remainders from each plate, "e no pass brer'fass" he muttered to himself.

"Hey!", a heavy hand slapped across Tx's back, the force almost toppling him, his stumble, stylized, boasted twists, turns, springs and leaps, reminiscent of a Sotnikova or any other Russian figure skater.

The two bickered like old women arguing over the price per tuber on eke market day. Akin to two stags locking horns for ownership of a licentious doe, they pressed heads together testing strengths of skull bones and neck muscles. "Yeh!", "Yeh!", "Cam'on nen!", "Cam'on!", continued for a further minute. In the corner of his eye, Cellular spotted a ball sitting seductively atop a sand castle. Hurried he ran towards it, grabbed it with both hands, threw up in the air before catching it on the volley, into the night sky it slowly surrendered its size and majesty, shrinking further more the higher it soared.

"Winner takes Cyberia" he boomed. The beach gasped in unison, jaws dropped, glasses slipped from hands, spilling their mojitos, inebriating the sands. Before the ball had landed, he had assembled his team, "3-3 fo'mashon, tree dafens, tree attak. Mazi left wing, Dubya left back, Babafad centa, Me, Celluminike up top".

"We're two players short" Robby interjected looking down shamefully at the plaster cast around his leg.

"You mean one" said a voice in the distance, before moving towards the backline. "Fo' Cyberia!" he yelled, throwing a clenched fist salute into the naked night sky. Catalyst had watched the last two games from his beachhut, rumoured to have intentions for the throne, he'd watched on, wry smile stretched across his face as Cellular presided over defeat after defeat, debacle after debacle. At the height of his pariah, Catalyst would strike, an unrelenting, uncompromising, coup d'etat, his long awaited tour de force. With Cyberia now the wager upon the table and the likely installation of socialist rhetoric under the governance of BeniTx, he was forced to fight for Cyberia in order to win Cyberia.

"Count me...........in" spoke a voice of unplaced accent, part Russian, part Germanic, part Mr Biggs parking lot pimping agbero, made all the more difficult to define by a deliberate stammer. "For the..............Big.............Boss" he added, "the number one.................Dean of............", he paused and raised a photoshopped newspaper cutout of Keshi and Klopp in warm embrace. "Coaches". Zee or Zangzeef, as was written upon his back in Russian lettering would take up the final slot wide right of an attacking front three.

Chapter 5 - Best players?...Best Team?

As if pre-planned, preordained, like the activated automaton, a Fonzarelli-like click of the fingers and BeniTx's team was assembled, players emerged from each point of the pentagram, coincidence or symbolism?, the observant eyes watched on with intrigue. A 2-1-2-1 formation, yet another pentagram, an anatomical man-like alignment, substantiating Tx's claims to be of other worldly acumen, as far as tactics be concerned. Two fullbacks, Rawlings on the left, King Loku to the right. Forward left the mercurial El Hadary, to the right Bamenda Boy, up top the diminutive false nine, Tfchampong, the game was to be a money-spinner for the cab driver who'd left the meter running with a passenger inside. Much to the surprise of the onlookers, BeniTx had opted against fielding himself, instead, Vancity Eagle, was deployed at the centre of the pentagram, the loins of the anatomical man, the point where all lines bisected. Dropping back he would sweep up spillages, pushing forward, he'd lead transitions and overload the attack.

As the ball landed, the warring factions charged.

Chapter 6 - Kick And Rush

"The night sky glows gloriously with noctilucent clouds Andy, and a full moon joins the audience, the scene is set for a classic".

"Its been a wonderful World Cup Jeff" Townsend remarked, "the colour, the culture, the Copa Cabana, the curves, the cute c....".

"We'll have to come back to that later Andy, the Cyberians have lost the ball in midfield and are struggling to get back, this could be a counter...".

"Naive, typical Africans Jeff, he had to keep it simple, instead he tried the flash and has put his team in danger".

"Sweeping cross field pass finds El Hadary, now what can he do with it....oooooo! audacious, audacious, a double stepover and dink over the defender's outstretched leg. He's off".

"He wont catch him Jeff, this boy could catch pigeons"

"And Dubya's going to be hindered more than helped by the topcoat he's wearing Andy".

"I've never seen anything like it Jeff, its 20 degrees and he's claiming to be chilly, he'll have some cold stares if they score from this...".

"Oooooooh, what a goal!!!! What a goal! He had no right to shoot from there, the angle was against him but he let fly".

"The keeper's got to do better Jeff, it moved in the air, but he's let it go between his hands, again, African keepers Jeff...".

"I'm not sure if he'd have stopped it Andy" Jeff challenged, "it knocked the drumstick clean out of Babafon's hands and....oooooooh, a great celebration for a great goal, he's walking like an Egyptian, absolutely brilliant Andy".

"He's got great feet Jeff, as good in the disco as he is on the pitch".

"He's thrown his shirt into the crowd and theres a real raucous amongst the fans here and...whats this, theres something written on his vest Andy".

"Its an N, I dont agree with all this writing on shirts malarkey, just get on with the game, but thats the way it is these days Jeff, in my day..."

"No time for the history class Andy, a huge fifty:fifty's seen Celluminike reduced to a crumpled heap and Vancity's away with it".

"He's big, powerful and when he gets going, he's like an elephant stampeding Jeff".

"Well the Cyberians will need some poachers quick".

A sharp change of direction and reverse Cruyff turn evades the two-footed lunge of Catalyst.

"He's done him like film trick Andy".

"Great skill Jeff, he's hit full speed now, he's got the Arab to the left, the coloured lad to the right, its three on two Jeff, ooooooooooooh, what a pass!".

An each perfect, perfectly weighted roll of the ball, tantalizingly close enough to both defenders as to insist upon their attempted clearance, evaded both sending them into a head on head on collision with one another. The ensuing melee resembling a Wrestlemania's figure-four leg lock. With Waffi and Babafon a tangled mess, the finish was formality, outside of the boot and possibly bunion, Bamenda curled an exquisite shot high into the roof of the net.

"Its two Andy and we've barely got started, this could be a rout here" Jeff exclaimed.

"Typically naive defending from the Africans Jeff, year in, year out, clumsy, thick, its Zaire all over again, Big Ron was ri....".

"He's doing a Ravenelli there the little Cameroonian and the fans are loving it, shirt over the head, always a good celebration...The A on his vest, probably for a topclass goal, brilliant from Bamenda".

"Yes, you always get a bit of flair and flamboyance from the Africans, it doesn't always come off for 'em, but when it does, its a joy to behold".

An unnecessary backheel from Cellular heralded the restart.

"Thats Zee's first touch of the ball Andy"

"He's been nonexistant Jeff, stop, start, stop, start, as if he's running into fullstops with every second stride, he'd given a lot of big talk earlier on, its time to back it up".

An Arshavin-esque feint and the Germanic Russgerian was hurrying through the middle of the pitch. As if such movement were the trigger to the Manchurian candidate, the five points of the pentagram collapsed in, in an instant, the loudmouthed adolescent was enclosed, surrounded and in receipt of a synchronised slide tackle.

"Thats got to hurt Andy".

"Its a man's game" Townsend dismissed "they've won the ball fairly and can counter" he continued.

"For a Russian, he caved in a little too easy there, was like taking Crimea off'a Ukranian, Andy".

"Thats one for the Xmas cracker Jeff, will have to write that d...ooooooooooooooooooh, what a hit, what a hit!".

"You dont save those!"

"Its a beauty Jeff, he wont strike a ball better than that, Vancity's sent the crowd crazy, what a strike".

"And he's got his top off too Andy, into the crowd it goes...and its a T this time".

"I'm not a fan of all of that Jeff, just get on with the game, save the banter for the dressing room".

"The Cyberians will be wanting to head back to the dressing room if this carries on Andy".

Chapter 7 - Mayweather

But for the suggestive chorus of "Money", somewhat of a colloquialism for Mr Mayweather, BeniTx's shoulder rolling and raggedy armed speedball rendition, could've been mistaken for Syndenham's Chorea. The rabble rousing demagogue, renowned for his fetish for argument for argument's sake, had spent the game's entirety thus far, skipping, bobbing, weaving, rope-a-doping in an imaginary ring, movements precipitated by a screeched "Money". Were the wobbly jabs and slippery skips instructions concealed in the most enigma of codes or merely the physical manifestation of absolute madness? There's something about success that lends to the ludicrous, reason and rationale.

Chapter 8 - E Don Happen

"Stray pass from Cellular there, he's having a mare Andy, poor in the last two games, i'm not the only one surprised he made the line-up once again".

"Well, theres been talk of don hammerings amongst the Africans Jeff...he'll take a hammering if they score from this".

"Its Rawlings, beats one".

"He's done him for pace Jeff, Mazi brings many things to the pitch, but pace isn't one of them".

"Yes, he's getting on a bit Andy"

"A bit and a bit more, you can never tell with these Africans Jeff, one minute they're fifty the next minute they're pulling on a top for the under twen...".

"Oooooooooooooh, that is sensational. Sensational. What a strike, it just gets better Andy...that balls traveled further than a conjoined Kipkoech and Kiptanui".

"Splendid Jeff, absolutely splendid! He had no right to shoot from there and gave the keeper no chance, what a hit".

"I'm lost for words" Jeff added, the irony being his prolix shortage of superlatives, "fantastic! Absolute genius! You wont find a better goal any time soon, Rawlings has roared into the game Andy".

"He's thrown the shirt into the crowd Jeff and the shorts might follow, he's overjoyed with that one".

A bold, capitalised I shimmered opulently neath the moon's light, its glow hanging from its corners like golden medallions about the olympian's neck. Rawlings had been somewhat inconsequential for most of the match, there was worthy argument to stretch such critique beyond the impressions demarcating the pitch's confines and into everyday life. Masai or Ashanti? His spectacular failure at the London marathon, where he was seen to skip the course trail and sprint towards the Home Office to request asylum was matched only by the cack-handedness which saw his taxi firm plunge into administration. Overheads of £1.5m, all on plantain. In an instant, with one swing of his boot, he'd showered himself in glory and praise. Magnificent.

"Its a V Andy".

"Those Cyberian's will be feeling V'd right now Jeff, they've done nothing, slow, clumsy, how many times have we said it, typically Afr...".

"I'll stop you there Andy, its an unbelievable cock-up at the back here, they've barely restarted. Cellular over hits the pass to Mazi, who does well to recovery and sprays it wide to Zee, he had to go forward, he's a young lad, maybe its...".

"He didn't want it Jeff, you could tell from his body language, his runs have been stop-start all day, he'll need to get started now".

Chapter 9 - Film Trick

Fear? Trepidation? Either, or, a careless back-pass from the young Russgerian sent the ball rolling deep into the Cyberian half. Stay, go, stay, go, the thought circumvented Babafon's head, tis said in such times of cryptic conundrum, the intelligence of instinct exceeds that of the well-thought, the latter needing time, a luxury, overpriced in such circumstances, useless at anything other than full expense. The instinct said to go. Setting off, each forceful stride seismic to the sandy shores, flanked by Catalyst and Dubya, a portly mass moved in unison. Slow, ponderous.

"They've all set off Andy, they've got to get there first, they've left themselves wide open at the back. Hadary's chasing this one, Bamenda too, Loku's moving in if they can see him...".

Boom!...the impact reverberated through each grain of sand, bubble's bounced, breasts the same. (Gasp!), the crowd expressed in tandem, an omniumgatherum mass of uniform emotion. The impact emitting its omnipotence far and wide, further, wider. Sound, startled, stretched, strained sinews in a desperate, futile attempt to keep pace with the sonic boom, the ne plus ultra. The bars before the games shuddered, stalls and deckchairs cowered submissively, still it spread. By the roadside, Ghanaians whistled car alarm sounds from wound down windows of bush taxis. Plantain skins split in beaten up car boots. Buildings shook, passion fruits plummeted from swaying trees. In the animal sanctuary a previous comatosed Big Pokey's eyes flashed open, "Vet, Vet" screeched an attendant.

The ball, all consuming, had drawn all of the field's players towards its casual roll like some attention-seeking, despotic electromagnet. Each and every player had committed themselves to the challenge, some lunged two footed with closed eyes, others invited flashbacks of momentous moments, first kisses, third bases, Mazi imagined publishers penning deals to distribute one of his literary classics, Catalyst conjured kingship of Cyberia, Celluminike rehearsed masonic rituals and Dubya sang verse after verse of Red Hot Chili Pepper tunes. Legs kicked, rushed towards the ball, the impact of all twelve feet sent it spinning off into orbit, looping over the mass of entwined limbs and flattened potbellies, it spun, wild, free, buzzing like the bumbled bee in a field of flowery blooms.

"Its moving all over the place Andy".

"Its these new balls Jeff, if you catch them with the in-step...".

"Well that was about twelve in-steps and a dozen outs".

"Its arcing back Jeff, its dipping, its dipping, its..."

"Its.........................Its In!".

As if on cue, as if such an unpredictable occurrence were the produce of pre-planning, deliberate, intentional, BeniTx meandered beyond the boundaries of the technical area, across the dividing line of player and coach, onto the sands where those gladiators had fought tooth and dagger, had bloodied noses and cracked crowns. The stride began as a limp, the antalgic gait of a Verbal Kint, each step slowly, subtly empowering the flaccid musculature of the trailing left leg. Within a few feet of the crumpled heap of bloodstained battlers, his stride was upright, exact, of military precision. Cellular's head would serve as the stepping stone from which he would launch his leap to the crest of this mountain of mangled men, spent, slain. Turning to the crowd in slowed motion, his hands snatched, pulled, tore at his singlet like a scoop slamming Hulk Hogan. The torn vest fell autumn leaf like atop the foliage of fallen soldiers, revealing, a masterful murial of resplendent calligraphy tattooed onto his naked torso.

"Its an E and an S Andy, ES".

"They're all at it Jeff, whats that now, an N, an A, T, I, V and now and ES".

Both men stared, startled, astounded at the word emerging from the letters scribbled onto the notepad.